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Nonfiction is my psycho ex.

I'm  sorry I can't LJ cut this, but apparently copy/pasting into LJ Cut boxes doesn't seem to work. So, it's being posted, and I'm sorry for offending friend pages with this and the next post.

This is a story I wrote for Creative Nonfiction. It's about dating genres. Srsly.


Nonfiction is my psycho ex.


V. I dated Romance once. It started with Jane Eyre, but the relationship hit a plateau there and we couldn’t go further. It’s not my fault though; I tried! It’s Romance that refused to change. I was willing to try others, but my constant perusing of Borders’ Romance section shelves made me come away with a bad taste in my mouth. I’m always awkward going out with Romance. She dresses like a Bratz doll, all purple and pink with wildly flowing script and too much flesh showing. Her stilettos are too long, and the men on her covers are all bare-chested and brawny. Romance is by no means a respectable, well-dressed woman, and her behavior in public embarrasses me. People who speak in dead metaphors always tell me not to judge a book by its cover, but I’m sure that idea came before Romance, or no one would have said it.

I read the other day that Romance is something along the lines of having a smart, strong, independent female lead, who later gets herself into trouble and the stronger, smarter, more independent male lead rescues her out of. Romance and I fought about this. Why were these strong, independent women so dependent on getting rescued by men? Why weren’t these strong independent women ever rescued by other strong, independent women? Why was there never a male in jeopardy (from something other than his commitment-phobia?) who was rescued by a strong, independent woman? In face of Romance’s blatant disregard to gender neutrality, we broke up. I don’t think I’ve seen her since.


IV. Nonfiction is my psycho ex-boyfriend. Once every few months, I get bored and take The Confession by Jim McGreevey off my shelves, where it otherwise lays nestled between The Starfighters of Adumar and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. If I’m really bored, I find one of my quasi-sociological books and try to educate myself. I quickly grow bored, however. I feel bad for Nonfiction sometimes, but do I really want to read the official autobiography of Nicole Richie? I don’t feel there’s much to be learned from this that I can’t learn from logging onto Wikipedia, other than the fact that Nicole Richie paid for a mediocre ghost writer? It’s not his fault either; he’s just rather bookish. He’s boring. There’s very little depth or character development in his conversations; it’s mostly just boring rhetoric about people he’s never met. Besides, I see enough of Nonfiction at school; poking his head out of the undone zippers of other people’s backpacks and rearing his head when we have to cover Said’s opinions on Orientalism in Pursuits of English. We have a cordial relationship, but Nonfiction really needs to get over me and stop attempting to win me back every few months.


III. Poetry is the girl everyone tells me to date. I’ve considered it, but my attention has always been drawn away by the more rebellious, non-mainstream genres. My parents both insist she’s such a nice girl, with her rhyme schemes and extended metaphors, but my mom is lying through her teeth on that one. She’s as apathetic towards Poetry as I am. She seems like a good choice; she seems to be quite focused on knowing and understanding the world around her, and you have to admire that in a genre. It’s not her, though—it’s me. She’s soft spoken, but I can’t understand her all the time. Her sentences are broken, and her messages sometimes mixed. I read too literally, reading each rhyme scheme like it’s a sentence. You’ve got to admire a girl who is willing to tackle the hard subjects, though. Not everyone can talk about abortion one stanza and go into relationship problems the next. I just don’t understand the way Poetry works, and it’s not her fault. Maybe we’ll date more when I’m older.


II. Fantasy is my lover; a constant bed partner who never ceases to amaze me with new ideas and stories. When I’m worn out from reading and just want something simple, Fantasy lets me reach for the Harry Potter series and act like I’m thirteen again. When I’m in need of a laugh, Charlaine Harris and her southern vampires keep a chuckle on my lips. This isn’t to say that Fantasy is without his flaws, though; I’ve told him I’ll never again read a vampire, werewolf, or Eragon novel unless I’m positive it won’t be as cliché as the thousand that have come before it (unfortunately for Eragon, there’s no hope there). Fantasy seems to understand this, and not hold it against me, supplying me with a fresh supply of wizards and warlocks whenever I need them. I can easily see us growing old together.


I. Science Fiction is my mistress, my deepest secret. It’s Fantasy’s best friend—they share a section together!—and I’m not sure how happy he’ll be about me seeing SciFi. However, Science Fiction supplies me with everything Fantasy doesn’t alternate planets, crazy technology, and space are all among them. I’ve been seeing Science Fiction almost as long as I have fantasy; my first ever “adult” book was Star Wars X-wing: Rogue Squadron when I was nine years old. 72 Star Wars books later, Science Fiction might feel a bit betrayed by only having the title “mistress.” Regardless, I see my relationship with Science Fiction as having long-term prospects; I can easily imagine myself and Brave New World curled up in front of a fire together when I’m older.



Josh! not at the disco.

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